by Anne Stuart
“James …”
He shrugged. “I’m not blaming him for who and what I was. That had already been written in stone.” He held up the tape player in the moonlight. “Do you want to hear it, Annie? Your father’s voice from beyond the grave? His last words to his favorite disciple?”
She didn’t want to hear it. He’d warned her about the truth, and she’d told him she was willing. But now, when confronted by it, she was scared half to death. “Yes,” she said.
He clicked the machine on. Even after months the batteries still worked, and Win’s elegant voice came floating out over the barren, moon-swept landscape. “James, dear boy,” he said, and Annie wanted to weep, “by this time I will be dead, and things will not have gone as smoothly as I would have hoped. I have no doubt that it will be you who finds the picture frame and all that it contains. Nor do I have any uncertainty as to who and what I saw in my last moments on earth. I have always loved you like a son. I couldn’t have asked for more.
“Annie must have come to you. I’d hoped there was no need, but you know what a careful man I am. A stickler for details. She’s in danger, and she’s come to you for help.
“Treat her as you did me. With gentleness and respect, with kind attention to her needs. It’s all I can ask of you. Don’t make it painful.
“The picture frame holds the answers. I know you suspected as much, but in certain ways, dear James, you were too good a man. You didn’t want to face the full scope of what I was doing. There were others with me, others less squeamish, less distracted by morality. And you have a strange kind of decency, dear boy. An honor that is rare and troubling.
“See that the information gets back to Washington. They betrayed me, and I was willing to go peacefully. But if you are here, listening to this message, then things have gone wrong and I’m no longer willing. I want them to go down with me.
“See to it, will you, James? As you saw to me? Kill them. Without the tenderness you showed when you killed me.”
The tape hummed in silence for a few moments longer. And then James turned to look up at her in the moonlight. The knowledge was too much for her. She couldn’t even move.
The irony should have made her laugh, but she was beyond emotion. She’d run to James for help in finding the man who murdered her father. She’d run to his executioner, looking for help.
She’d gone to bed with him. Opened her heart, her soul, her body to him. He’d taken everything, as he’d warned her. And there was nothing left but an empty shell, waiting for him to finish with her.
“Ah, Annie,” he said very gently. “I warned you that you wouldn’t like the truth, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” A distant part of her was amazed she had any voice at all. He rose then, and flung the cassette recorder away from him with powerful force. It smashed against a pile of stone, shattering, the tape spilling out in the moonlight like ribbons of blood.
The wind howled around them, like the voice of a thousand banshees, and it whipped his long black hair into his face, obscuring the cool sorrow there. When he held out his hand to her she took it. There was no place she could run to.
There was a car parked on a narrow side street in the little town. He broke into it with as little fuss as someone using a key, jump-started the engine, and waited for her to get in beside him. He seemed to have no doubt that she would. She did.
“Put your seat belt on, Annie,” he said.
She wanted to laugh. He was going to kill her, as he’d killed her father. He would do it as Win requested, quickly, painlessly, but he would do it and not think twice about it.
She fastened the seat belt. Her emotions had gone into hibernation, into a dark, quiet spot where all was peaceful. She watched him drive, his merciless profile, and she felt a sudden, latent curiosity.
“Why have you waited so long?” she asked. “Why have you kept me with you?”
“Because you held the key to the answers. Even if you didn’t realize it.”
She nodded, accepting it as the truth. Even if she hadn’t heard that damning tape, her usefulness had come to an end. Dr. Death didn’t need to make a house call this time. The patient had presented herself.
He took her out into the countryside, into the darkness, and some faint spirit began to revive in her. “How are you going to do it?” she asked quietly.
He was silent for a long moment. “I hadn’t thought much about it.”
“Do you have a preferred method?” she persisted. “Do you shoot people in the back of the head and dump their bodies in a ditch? That would work well for me. By the time they found me and identified me, you’d be back in the States.”
“If they found you,” he pointed out.
“I hadn’t thought of that. There aren’t very many people to mourn me. My father kept me fairly isolated. I never really learned the gift of making close friends. I don’t suppose a great many people will realize I’m gone. Martin will notice. You’ll need to come up with an explanation for him.”
“Yes,” James said in an even voice. “Martin will notice.”
“You were very efficient with a knife last night,” she continued on, forcing herself. “I’d rather you didn’t use one, though. I expect that might take longer. Hurt more. And I don’t like blood.”
“Understood,” he said coolly. “No knife.”
“I wouldn’t care to be strangled either,” she added as an afterthought.
“I never developed much of a knack for that anyway. It tends to take too long.”
They might have been discussing recipes, or interest rates. Annie breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good. Er … James? No severed body parts, please. I have a horror of such things. I think I must have been beheaded in a past life.”
He glanced over at her. His large, elegant hands were draped casually over the small steering wheel of the stolen car. “And who were you, Annie? Mary Queen of Scots? Anne Boleyn?”
“No,” she said in a small voice. “I was just some poor lady-in-waiting who got caught up in other people’s Machiavellian plots.”
His mouth curved in a cool, ironic smile. “No severed body parts, then. Any other requests?”
“How did my father die? Did you push him down the stairs?”
He looked away from her, and his profile was bleak. And for a moment he said nothing, staring straight ahead as he drove.
The memory came back to him, swift and sure and as clear as yesterday. He’d pushed it away long enough, but there was no use trying to hide. He could look at the past with cool precision. Knowing he had done what had to be done. And would do it over again if he had to.
Win Sutherland had always lived well. The house in Georgetown was a testament to his good taste and his stringent demands. Each piece of furniture, each painting, each unused silver ashtray, was chosen with an eye to perfection, a complement to his rigorously controlled lifestyle. Everything in Win Sutherland’s life, from his crystal glassware to his friends to his only daughter, was a carefully planned accessory. His control had been velvet, inexorable, and it had even included the moment of his death.
James had obeyed the summons, as he always had. He’d seldom been able to say no to Win, and that night, of all nights, it would have been an impossibility. The Georgetown house was still and silent, most of the lights off. Win was waiting for him in the cherry-paneled library, a snifter of excellent cognac in his hand, a small table set for two, complete with candlelight and sparkling Waterford.
Win was sitting by the fire, impeccably dressed in a cashmere blazer, his silver hair brushed back from his almost unlined face, and the look in his blue eyes was gentle and loving. “I knew I could count on you, my boy,” he’d greeted James. “Pour yourself a drink.”
James had done so, for the first time in the almost twenty years he’d known and loved Win Sutherland at a loss for words. He took the leather chair opposite him, stretching out, keeping his muscles relaxed, ready.
“We’ll eat in a little while. I had Rene make
up a gnocchi for us before he left. Remember the first time we had gnocchi together? It was in Venice. We were looking for Arnoldo. We found him.”
“Yes,” James said. Arnoldo Catablanco had been his first kill outside the military. A vicious member of the Red Brigade, he’d been eluding Interpol for years. Win had led James to him. Win had watched as James broke his neck. And then together they’d gone out for Valpolicella and gnocchi.
“You should have been my son, James,” Win said meditatively, staring into his glass of brandy. “I wanted you for Annie, you know. When she was younger, I thought it was the perfect answer. You could marry Annie, and I would have you both.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh, any number of things,” he’d said airily. “You would have been a little too much for her to handle. She was better off with Martin. Someone milder, more easily malleable.”
“You don’t think I’m easily malleable?” He allowed a trace of bitterness to creep into his voice. “I would have thought you’d consider me to be completely gullible.”
“Not you, my boy. I’ve never made the mistake of underestimating you. You were always my biggest challenge, my brightest star, my favorite child. If I could fool you, I could fool anyone. And I did.”
“And you did,” James said.
Win drained his brandy. “Let’s eat before it gets cold,” he said pleasantly, rising from his chair. “I’m planning to enjoy this meal immensely.”
The table was set for lovers, the ripe scent of roses mixing with the lingering aroma of fine food and wine. Win Sutherland had always been a master at manipulation. He kept the dinner conversation flowing, and James found himself touched, and laughing, as the years fell away and he was young and hopeful once more, and Win Sutherland blew into his life and showed him how he could save the world and make his penance at the same time. And the price was so small. Just a soul that he’d already lost.
The world was past saving. The meal was finished, followed by espresso and a tiny glass of amaretto. “I shouldn’t drink coffee so late at night,” Win murmured with a gentle, lover’s smile. “It keeps me up. But I expect I won’t have to worry about that.”
James stared at him, wanting to scream, wanting to beg. “No,” he said. “You won’t have to worry about sleeping tonight.”
Win nodded. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we? It’s a glorious night. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Jamey?”
No one ever called him Jamey, but Win managed to get away with it. “I wouldn’t mind.”
They walked the perimeter of the property, he and Win, in perfect, companionable silence, knowing each other too well to speak. They climbed the outside stairs to the second-floor porch, and when they reached the top Win turned to look at him, and the moonlight was like a silver halo.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why, James?” he murmured gently.
“No. I don’t really want to know.”
Win smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, James. I wish things had been different.”
“So do I.”
“I’m glad it’s you, you know,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve loved you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. Put your hands on me, my boy.”
For a long moment he hadn’t moved, staring into the face of his mentor, his father. Win reached down and caught his hands in a lover’s grip, bringing them up to cup his lined neck. “Use your hands on me, Jamey. Do it. Do it now.”
And James had broken his neck, killing him instantly.
His voice came to her from a distance, cold and deadly, and she’d almost forgotten her question. “I broke his neck first, Annie. As he knew I would. Fast, painless, efficient.”
She absorbed that knowledge with silent horror. “Then if it’s all the same to you, that’s how I’d prefer to die,” she said politely, like a young child asking for a sweet.
“I’ll see what I can do about it.” There was no missing the undertone of savagery in his voice now, and he jerked the wheel toward a small, brightly lit building, pulling the car to a stop.
He turned to look at her. “This place looks secluded enough. I’ll see if I can get us a room.” He opened the door, then glanced back at her. “You can make a run for it if you want. The moon should set before long—I might not be able to find you.”
“I’ll wait,” she said.
His smile was brief and cool, and he disappeared into the inn, leaving the car still running.
It would have been simple enough for her to jump into the other seat, to take off into the night, leaving him stranded. She’d never driven a British car, but the roads were narrow and empty, and most likely she’d survive.
Until someone else caught up with her. Like the man who had killed clancy. Or one of the men who had come for her last night. She couldn’t count on Martin to save her. She couldn’t count on anyone.
She didn’t move. The only person who’d been capable of protecting her was James. If he was going to be the one to kill her, so be it.
He wanted to kill her. He wanted to do exactly what he’d told her he wouldn’t—he wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat and choke her until she screamed.
He’d never been so angry in his entire life. The rage suffused his body so that he shook with it, and he could only be glad he was able to get out of the car, away from her, before he lost his control entirely.
It took a few minutes and the cool, biting night air for the irony of it to hit him. He was furious with her for thinking he could kill her.
The knowledge that he might have to kill her had never been far from his mind since she’d shown up on his doorstep looking like a long-lost dream. He’d known that it could end up this way.
And yet the calmness with which she accepted the inevitable … the way she looked at him out of those damnable, knowing eyes, and thought him capable of making love to her one night and strangling her the next …
And he could do it, he reminded himself. He was a cold-blooded bastard, and she had seen him clearly. He would kill her because he had no choice. It was a fitting penance that she would look at him out of those haunting eyes and know what was coming.
She was still waiting for him, as he knew she would be. “They’re almost empty,” he said, climbing in. “I had them give us a room in the carriage house. We’ll be away from everyone.”
“How nice,” she said faintly.
He wanted to goad her. He wanted her to scream at him, demand to know how he could be such a soulless monster. “They think we need solitude for boisterous sex.”
“Won’t they be surprised,” she murmured. “Tell me, James, was there ever a time when you couldn’t do it? When your orders were just too sickening and you couldn’t bring yourself to kill? Couldn’t get it up, so to speak?”
“No,” he said.
“And does fucking me make the slightest bit of difference?” she persisted.
“No,” he said.
“Well” she said brightly, “I can think of only one thing I regret at this moment.”
He waited. For her hatred, her fear, her disgust to brim over. Waited for it with a twisted kind of longing. But she said nothing, forcing him to ask.
“What do you regret, Annie?”
“That I’m about to see my father again. I’m not particularly in the mood to,” she said with icy calm.
She managed to startle him. “Trust me, Annie. You won’t be going to the same place.”
The room was small, cozy, the gas fire sending out waves of heat on the cold, deadly night. There was one double bed beneath the eaves, and the wind howled outside, like a thousand lost souls. She watched him turn on the lights against the gathering darkness; she watched him move with calm, soothing grace.
He had touched her, taking her arm solicitously as he took her upstairs to their room in the carriage house of the old inn. He settled her comfortably on the sofa, wrapping a cover around her as she shivered, unable to help herself. He lit the fire, talking to her in a soft, so
othing voice. Telling her about his childhood in Ireland, his mother, sweet and hardworking, possessed of a fierce temper and a fiercer faith. She sat and listened in a daze as he moved around the room, readying it.
“I’ve ordered us up a dinner,” he said. “And a decent bottle of wine. It’ll help you relax.”
“I’m relaxed,” she said, and oddly enough, it was true. She felt no anxiety, no impatience. She simply waited for him to put his hands on her, as she knew he would.
He turned on the radio, and the music was soft and lilting, Irish music. Haunting. Death was all around in Ireland, James had said. And she could hear the banshees outside her window, calling to her, waiting for her.
He met the maid at the door, refusing to let her in when she brought the dinner, and Annie knew he didn’t want any witnesses who could identify her body when it was found. She didn’t mind. She sat, peaceful in the cozy room, as he set the table, opened the bottle of wine, and poured her a glass. He didn’t pour one for himself, she noticed as she sat across from him, his hands brushing gently against her as he held the chair for her.
The wine was dry and wonderful. “You aren’t having any?” she asked him.
“I don’t drink when I’ve got a job to do,” he said, and if she hadn’t known better she would have thought he was taunting her.
“Very wise,” she murmured. “I want you to do your best work.”
“I plan to. Eat your dinner, Annie. There’s nothing better than Irish lamb.”
She ate. Oddly enough, she had an appetite for her last meal. She drank as well—James’s taste in wine rivaled her father’s legendary excellence, and the brandy that followed was smooth and crisp.
Perhaps the wine and brandy weren’t the wisest move on her part, but she was past the point of wisdom. She looked across the table at James, at his untouched plate. “You remind me of a vampire,” she said.
